


How We Get Around

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Double Date, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4568001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an Inquisition trip to Starkhaven, Varric gets the idea in his head to introduce the subjects of his next novel to his girlfriend without the distraction of having to save the world. He may come to regret this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Get Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damalur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/gifts).



> Many thanks to Toft as usual, for dealing with my alternating grousing and need to laugh at my own jokes, and damalur, for giving a prompt that could've been tailor-made for me or something.

Varric's not so sure this was as good an idea as he'd thought when suggesting it. Hawke was back in Kirkwall, Varric and the Inquisition's most unlikely power couple had been dragged along with the Inquisitor to Starkhaven – it only made sense for Hawke to come visit. And she'd never really met Sparkler or Tiny outside of battle planning and combat. So: double date, introduction, connecting old family with the new crowd. It should have been perfect.

And shit, it had been, until Hawke asked about the matching necklaces.

“ _Two_ high dragons,” she's now all but shouting, “and in the exact same roost! Eight fucking years apart! Sure, Kirkwall's basically a magnet for crazy, but _really_?”

“And you got to fight them both?” The Bull apparently still resents being left out of the Herald's most recent dragon hunt. “Shit, what'd they fight like?”

Beside Varric, Dorian sighs. “Well, that's it for conversation. Have you a deck of cards on hand?” He waves a hand toward the High Dragons Who Want To Eat You fan club with a noise so disgusted Varric half expects Cassandra to appear behind him. “We can only wager once on who's liable to start drooling  first.”

“You gotta get creative, Sparkler,” Varric says, but only after he checks both faces for dampness around the mouth. “We'll follow it up with 'Who spills their drink first' and 'how long until Tiny buys a round of Maraas-Lok.' Opportunities abound, my friend.”

Dorian snorts, which he would absolutely have never admitted to in the early days, but now seems to own pretty confidently. This time he gives the rest of the tavern – lowbrow place, the Prince's Pantaloons, and the crass painting of Sebastian hanging over the bar really sealed the deal – the old once over. A faint smile has come to his lips, but wicked. Note to self: ask Sparkler just when he was in Kirkwall, and did he ever get up to some debauchery in Starkhaven before the Vael massacre.

“I'm in,” says Dorian, returning his attention to their respective oblivious dates. “Being a man of good sportsmanship – ignore anything Cullen tells you – I'll place my crowns on Hawke.”

Well, cheat and cheat alike, but Tiny's got a lot more mouth to leak from, and Varric's got a few good forfeits in mind.

–

Several bets in – Hawke spilled her drink before anyone drooled, Varric won the bet that _taarsidath-an halsaam_ would happen before the Maraas-Lok came out, Dorian won his coin back when Hawke choked on the stuff but didn't spit it out all over the Bull – Hawke and Tiny are only enthusing the louder for what they've drunk. Dorian sighs and buys some fancy Tevinter brandy for himself and Varric. It goes down smooth enough, but the fumes get to Varric's head way faster than they should have. He manages not to make a spectacle of himself.

“You know, I can appreciate the finer points of dragons on my own,” Dorian says, long suffering. Well, it'd be difficult not to, with the Bull around; Varric's definitely picked up more than he ever wanted to know from Hawke by herself. He nods and raises his snifter to that, and Dorian clinks his own against it. “But you'd think they would run out of things to say after a while.”

“You'd think.” Varric sighs, weary. “They just end up circling around to where they started. You'll see. They'll hash out every gory detail of every battle just to one-up each other.”

Dorian looks to the sky as if seeking the grace of Andraste to guide him. In these trying times, Varric can hardly blame him. “Three royals says Hawke starts repeating herself first,” he says, but in the voice of a haunted man at the end of a long, wearisome life. That's not a bad line, actually; Varric catalogues it for later use. Dorian sighs. “Bull hasn't even started on their cultural significance under the Qun. He's got a whole speech about this popular conspiracy theory that somewhere along the line, the tamassrans started breeding children with dragon blood or something like that. He'll get another half-hour at least out of that.”

“I'll shake on that.” Varric musters up a grin. He's got some gold to win back. “Hawke runs out of things that actually happened, she's gonna start bullshitting.”

That gets a laugh out of Dorian, at least. “No wonder you like her so much.”

-

They quit drinking after a few more bets – someone’s gotta be responsible for the drunken dragon fan club – and finally give up on spectating and turn their chairs to face each other. Dorian rubs at the bridge of his nose. Varric looks to his last empty mug and sighs; the alcohol will hit them both soon enough, but the best part’s the drinking itself.

“So,” says Dorian, setting his hands down on his knees. Emphatically. “Conversation. What’s next for Varric Tethras, bestselling author in four countries and a countless number of city-states?”

Varric chuckles. He does have almost a full draft of the story about defiant lovers from opposite sides of a war, but he’s pretty certain Dorian doesn’t want to know about that one. “Well, I got started on the one about the Inquisition, but that’s mostly notes – I’ll probably write more of it in what free time I can scrounge up while helping the Kirkwall relief effort.”

A thoughtful nod from his drinking companion. “After these past few years, though, I fancy I know you fairly well. You can’t have refrained from writing fiction for that long.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Varric protests. “There was that chapter of _Swords and Shields_ for the Seeker.”

“How could I forget.” Dorian snorts. “You’re an inveterate ham, Varric, but that chapter went above and beyond. To be frank, it actually improved the reading experience.” He shakes his head. But Varric’s seen him reading _Hard in Hightown_ with nary a trace of derision on his face. He’ll take the compliment in Dorian’s dismissal.

From the other side of the table, a particularly loud shout. Both Varric and Dorian turn around in alarm, but it’s just Hawke doing her dragon impersonation and the Bull expressing his vast enthusiasm for Hawke’s favourite party trick. A lot of the other patrons are staring, too, and not all of them look worried for that matter. There’s gonna be some disappointment before the afternoon is out.

“I can’t believe these are the people we’ve respectively fallen in love with,” Dorian grumbles.

It’s been a fascinating experience, watching Dorian progress from squawking in outrage whenever Tiny brought up their very casual affair to grousing about being in love where anyone can hear. This is what makes them such ripe novel material. Character growth. Varric’s happy for them, but on the other hand he could’ve done without catching them at it against the stairs behind the Herald’s Rest.

“Back to your question,” Varric says, before he can remember that particular event too vividly. “You don’t know that. I mean, I am, but you have no proof.”

Dorian smirks, of course he does. “So? Do tell.”

Varric settles back into his chair and leans his left arm against the table. An upside to this venture: he’s now got this captive audience for the duration of the dragon conversation. “Well, after my failure at romance, I started looking at other genres to try my hand at. And I’m thinking, historical fiction. Take some big Age-naming event, throw some poor bastard into the middle of it.”

“Brother Genitivi had that series of _Contexts_. You might find some use out of it.” Dorian smiles fondly into the middle distance. Honestly. Varric’s known a lot of avid Genitivi readers in his time, but he’s not entirely certain Dorian isn’t just infatuated with the scholar himself. He definitely gets some kind of weird kick out of those books.

But _Contexts_ , Varric’s actually read part of that series. Not for a while, mind, but when he was receiving his “formal dwarven education” it was a good way to figure what was actually going on in the world outside Orzammar – and, for that matter, way more interesting. “Any particular age you had in mind?”

Dorian’s eyes light up, and oh _shit_ , this is his version of dragons isn’t it? Though, all things considered, Brother Genitivi’s catalogue is way more approachable than any dragon. Less likely to set you on fire. Definitely a more relaxing—

The sudden sound of someone rather solid hitting the floor draws both their eyes, and Dorian stands up to see the carnage. Varric can’t quite see until he walks around the table, but the clamor of the tavern and Hawke’s sudden disappearance from her chair pretty much tell the whole story.

At least no one seems to be badly hurt, not that heavy bleeding or a concussion ever stops Hawke when she’s determined to have a good time. The Bull’s leaning dangerously back in his chair, not long for stability either – oh, damn, now he owes Dorian some actual money – and laughing almost as loud as Hawke.

“Andraste’s toenails, Hawke,” Varric says, offering her a hand up, and she bursts into laughter anew. “Seriously, though, are you okay?”

Hawke gets unsteadily to her feet, swaying a bit and grinning. Seems like she fell properly – Varric never got the hang of it, but it’s saved Hawke way too many times to count. A scrape on her forearm looks like the only damage she took. She bends at the hips to lean heavily on Varric’s shoulder, and widens her grin to beam at him. “I’m great!” she announces.

Maker save him, but this is exactly why he fell in love with Hawke in the first place. He rearranges them so he can reach up and plant one on her mouth, and Hawke laughs in delight and replies with her own smacking kiss. “My hero,” she says, not even a hint of red on her cheeks. Hawke doesn’t really blush, though. Her response to fluster usually involves really bad jokes, even worse than her usual. And damn if that doesn’t make her all the more charming.

“Varric, you’re getting sentimental on us.” When Varric looks over, Dorian smirks at him from across the table. The Bull snorts. It’s true, Dorian has not a leg to stand on.

Hawke frowns. “Neither of you are drunk enough, what have you been doing?”

Looking to Dorian, Varric winks. Dorian huffs, which by now Varric knows is completely toothless. “I know it may shock the both of you, but Varric and I are quite capable of entertaining ourselves,” he says in his full Condescending Altus voice – which sounds a little too much like Madame de Fer after several years spent drinking wine and talking shit together. “Even when half the party insists upon roaring about dragons.”

“In public? Dirty,” the Bull replies, leering. Dorian rolls his eyes; long gone are the days of outraged sputtering. Shame, really; he was hilarious back then.

Dorian sighs, long-suffering as he likes to pretend he is. “It’s true. I’m leaving you for Varric. You’ve just become too tame for me, and I’ve always liked a man with a way with words.”

That has Hawke cackling again. She’s always been the kind of drunk who thinks everything anyone says hilarious. Well. Even more hilarious as when she’s sober. It’s another one of her charms. “Varric! You’ve been holding out on me this whole time! We totally could’ve taken Zevran and Isabela up on their offer!” she yells.

“Yeah, tell the whole bar,” Varric chuckles.

“Tell you what.” The Bull actually looks like he’s giving the idea some thought. “You teach Hawke that fire breathing trick, you’re on.”

Varric can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Given the source, though, he probably isn’t.

Another roll of Dorian’s eyes. The man has truly perfected the art, but anyone who spends that much time with the Iron Bull must at least come by a passing decency. “This has all been vastly informative,” he says, “but Serah Tethras and I were in the midst of  a riveting conversation, so I suggest you both drink some water and return to your former topic of discussion.”

“Wait!” Hawke straightens up, balancing herself with one hand still on Varric’s shoulder. It really is a good thing Varric keeps in shape. “What fire breathing trick?”

“I’m not teaching you anything involving fire until you’re sober,” Dorian informs her.

Neither Dorian nor Varric are particularly shocked when their debate about the relative potential of the Exalted Age versus the Steel gets rudely interrupted by the smell of smoke and sudden screaming from around the tavern. The barkeep shoves them out the door, and there’s the untimely end to Varric’s attempts at becoming a regular. But, as they catch their respective breaths from laughing just outside the door, Varric has to admit: it was a damn good time after all.


End file.
